


always a king or queen

by MaryPSue



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 20:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: Minerva meets a Muggle.





	always a king or queen

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposting some old stuff. This one was from a prompt.

The arch leading down into Diagon Alley grinds closed, and Minerva turns towards the Leaky Cauldron.

Someone steps into her path. 

The witch must be near Minerva’s age, but her walk is sure, her back stiff and straight as any queen. Her face is weathered, but by the elements as much as by time - she has the nut-brown tan of one who spends long hours in the sun and wind, and the dyed black of her hair is faded enough to almost appear red in the sunlight. She’s forgone makeup, save for a striking red lipstick that forcibly draws Minerva’s eyes to her mouth.  

“I  _knew_  there was a door here,” she says, half to herself, and Minerva clears her throat. The witch starts, looking up as though she hadn’t noticed Minerva, or had forgotten she was there.

“Of course there’s a door here,” Minerva says, perhaps a little more sharply than is warranted. She’s not fond of being ignored. “How did you think one was meant to access Diagon Alley?”

“Diagon Alley?” the witch asks. Her eyes are alight, practically sparkling behind the thick lenses of her stylish red cat’s-eye spectacles. 

A suspicion seizes Minerva, and she reaches, surreptitiously, into her sleeve for her wand. “Are you foreign?”

“No - London born and bred,” the wi- the woman in front of Minerva says, craning her neck to look at the brick wall past Minerva’s shoulder. “You know, it’s strange. I’ve been down this street dozens of times but it wasn’t until last week that I noticed this place.”

“You weren’t meant to,” Minerva says sharply, and the spark vanishes from the other woman’s eyes so suddenly it’s as though something had reached out and snuffed it.

“I know,” she says, suddenly subdued. She rallies impressively, though, shaking out her hair, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. All she needs is a practiced wave and she would be every inch the queen. 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve encountered a door like this, is it,” Minerva says, her suspicion suddenly cemented. She isn’t quite sure why, but she lets the smooth wood of her wand slip through her fingers, back into its pocket in her sleeve. “What’s your name?”

The woman opens her mouth, and Minerva gets the distinct impression that there is a word she wants to say that catches in the back of her throat. What does spill out is, “Dr. Susan Pevensie, Ph.D. I’m a folklorist.”

“Well, Doctor Pevensie,” Minerva says, “this is something of a thoroughfare.” She hesitates only a fraction of a split second, before recovering her legendary composure. “Shall we take this conversation inside?”

The doctor smiles, and there’s an echo of the earlier sparkle dancing in her eyes. “I would love to.”


End file.
